


Lost

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Series: Lost & Found [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8232041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: Sam has lost his brother.Dean, injured and suffering from amnesia, is alone.Danger lurks. Will the brothers be reunited in time?Plenty of hurt Dean and lots of emotional angst for Sam."Dean..." he muttered, feeling a sense of familiarity as the word rolled off his tongue. His name must be Dean then?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.

 

 

The moon cast a cold, white light over the hillside; the sharp edged shadows of pine trees like black stripes across the track. There was no sound, almost as though the moon had frozen the land into stillness. A small rodent moved cautiously at the edge of the shadows, creeping forwards towards a dark shape. A soft sound, a gasp for breath and the rodent was gone on lightning fast paws, disappearing with a rustle into the dry grass.

There was a small movement where the moonlight met the shadow... a finger first, sliding across the rough surface, crumbs of dirt lodging in the nail. Then a hand, stretching long fingers forwards slowly, as though its owner was trying to find something familiar.

The dark shape stirred; there was a moan of pain, bitten off sharply as the shadow grew upwards until a man staggered out into the moonlight. He stood there for a moment, swaying, the sound of his breath harsh in the silence of the night. He shook his head as though to clear it, seemed to become suddenly aware that he was illuminated in the white light and glanced quickly around, before shuffling up the track towards a cluster of lights a few hundred yards away.

It took him a while to reach the bottom of the wooden steps outside the motel reception. He stopped there for some time, hanging grimly onto the rail and breathing heavily before making his way slowly upwards. Each step was clearly an effort, his long jean clad legs as out of control as those of a new born colt, the sound of his boots echoing on the wooden steps.

Anyone looking outside would have seen him pass under the warm glow of the porch light. A tall man, the sharp planes of his face pale even in the yellow light; a thin trickle of blood had dried dark on his skin, running from the spiky hair and down past his right ear.

The reception was closed; the man sagged wearily against the wall, patting clumsily at his pockets.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, "Goddam cell phone!"

He found something in his jacket pocket and fumbled it out, surprise passing over his features as he turned a key over in his fingers. He peered at the fob and resumed his halting shuffle in the direction of Room 27.

The key went in the lock on the second attempt and he half fell into the room, peered around and slammed the door behind him. The room was empty and the man felt a wave of disappointment as he sank onto the bed. There was something missing, something important, maybe even really essential, but he couldn't remember what it was.

Another hunt through his pockets turned up a clip of cash and an identity card. His face stared out at him under the name 'Dean Street'.

"Dean..." he muttered, feeling a sense of familiarity as the word rolled off his tongue. His name must be Dean then. 'Street' seemed odd though and a tight little frown creased his forehead; he kneaded at it with his fingers, feeling the shaking in his bones against the skin.

In the relative safety of the motel room Dean let some of his earlier focus slip away, felt it replaced with a steadily growing panic. He gritted his teeth, forcing the panic down.

He ran his fingers cautiously through his hair, trying to find the source of the pounding headache. There was a shallow cut and an egg shaped lump on his scalp over his right ear. Even the light brush of his fingertips caused the pain to spike, his vision to white out. He grabbed hold of the edges of the bed, fighting to stay conscious and not vomit.

The room spun slowly and settled; Dean pushed himself upright and staggered to the bathroom where he sank to his knees in front of the toilet, heaving violently. The pain in his head intensified, shredding his grip on consciousness.

"Please..." he murmured hoarsely, not sure who would answer, but disappointed when the expected encouraging words and comforting hand did not materialise.

Eventually, he forced himself upright and lurched towards the bed. He managed only a few shaky steps before his knees gave way, dropping him face-first onto the tatty carpet. His eyelids fought a losing battle and slipped closed over his glazed green eyes as he lay, long limbs sprawling loosely, his face bloodless beneath the scattering of freckles.

.

Sam dropped the cell phone onto the seat beside him. Staring at it wasn't going to make it ring, wasn't going to make Dean answer his numerous messages and missed calls. He dragged his fingers through his hair, felt close to tears with frustration and fear.

It had been two days now and there no trace of his brother. He'd gone out, for pie of all things, not normally a dangerous gig even for a Winchester. Sam had found the Impala easily enough, parked tidily in the diner parking lot, but Dean had vanished off the face of the earth.

He was trying to be practical, use his skills to track his brother down; he was a hunter, not some helpless civilian. But the trouble was the longer he looked, the more helpless he felt.

.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean became aware of an unpleasant smell, a musty, dusty, unclean aroma seeping into his awareness. Nausea swept over him and he swallowed painfully, eyelids pulling open with an effort. The orange and brown blur in front of him gradually sharpened into carpet pile, close enough that he could see the flakes of dust and other unidentifiable debris clinging to the fibres.

He lay there, wanting to move, get his face away from the dirty floor, but afraid any shift in his position would send him tumbling helplessly back into the cold darkness that was dragging at his mind. Part of him loved the carpet; it was the only thing between him and oblivion. The rest of him hated it.

Time flickered as he slipped in and out of consciousness, until eventually a clear spell lasted long enough for him to cautiously raise his head. The pain was immediate and intense; he frantically swallowed a sudden rush of saliva, knowing instinctively that the motion of retching would push him back over the edge.

When the chainsaw cutting into his brain slowed down, he managed to push himself upwards, first to his elbows and then to his hands and knees. Unable to ignore his raging thirst, he waited until the room stopped spinning and crawled slowly to the bathroom, his white knuckled grip fixing first on the bath side and then the edge of the sink until he had pulled himself up enough to sit on the toilet lid. He hung onto the sink with both hands, concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly until he could risk letting go with one hand long enough to turn on the faucet. By this time he was shaking uncontrollably, but managed to palm some icy water and get a little into his mouth before the rest dribbled down onto his chest. He lowered his face further into the sink bowl, palmed more water to his mouth and drank thirstily, splashing some onto his face. The cold made him shudder, but it pushed the darkness further away.

As his mind gradually cleared, it began to race. He was called Dean; he was sure of that at least. He was in room 27 of a motel he didn't recognise, with no idea where it was or why he was there. He seemed to be suffering from a bad concussion, although he didn't know why he thought that was the case. Someone else should be there too; he didn't know who, but was sure they would've helped him. And right now he really needed help.

It was cold in the bathroom and the water on his t-shirt wasn't helping. Dean stood slowly, supporting most of his weight on the tiled wall and shuffled into the bedroom. He paused; there didn't seem to be anything of his in the room. Nothing to trigger any memories. Panic flared again and he clamped down on it hard. Now was not the time to lose control.

"Get a grip, dude," he thought. "It's just a knock on the head, it'll get better an' I'll remember everythin' then."

It was hard to think through the pounding headache, but he figured the motel reception may have some information that would help. It was light outside now and he guessed he'd been unconscious for some time; maybe the reception was open?

-o-o-

The tall man tucked his FBI badge inside his suit jacket. He was visibly disappointed, perhaps more so than was warranted by the news that the diner surveillance camera was for show only. He was a big guy, the set of his jacket doing nothing to hide the solid musculature underneath. Even so, as he sagged miserably into a booth there was something about him that suggested 'lost dog', maybe even 'sad puppy'. Maybe it was the despair in the big hazel eyes or the way his brown hair flopped forwards over his face as he dropped his head into his hands. The waitress wondered what it was about this case that mattered so much to him, so clearly affected him on a personal basis.

-o-o-

Steeling himself, Dean opened the room door a crack, wincing as the sunlight hit his face. For a moment his vision blurred and he thought he might pass out, but he hung onto the door frame until the parking lot came into focus. Thankfully it was empty and he was able to stagger round to the reception entrance without an audience, keeping one hand on the wall, grateful the walkway was out of the direct sunlight.

The reception door was closed, handle slipping in his suddenly sweaty palm as he rattled it open and lurched inside. The suspicious and unfriendly look sent in his direction confirmed he looked as rough as he felt. Momentarily speechless after the effort to make it that far, Dean sank onto a seat.

"What can I do for ya?"

It took a while for it to sink in that the woman was speaking to him and he raised his eyes.

"Uh..."

He'd meant to say something more intelligent but the words were lost somewhere in the vague fog in his mind, so he just stared helplessly, transfixed by her intense stare as she came closer.

-o-o-

Sheryl stepped nearer, relieved to find there was no smell of alcohol. The man didn't seem to hear her at first, then slowly raised his head. His expression betrayed his confusion as he stared at her out of piercing green eyes. His face was pale, had the drawn cheeks and dark bruises of exhaustion and pain. Even so, he was handsome, striking enough that for a moment the surprise quite took her breath away.

He muttered something inaudible, running his tongue over his bottom lip. With a start she realised he was shaking, hard enough to make his fingers dance in an erratic rhythm on his knees and his jaw judder, even though she could see from the rigid tension in his cheek muscles that he was clenching his teeth.

"Ya okay there?" Her voice and expression softened as she realised he was not a threat. She guessed he was maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, a little younger perhaps than her own son. He looked ill and oddly fragile for a grown man and she felt an unexpected wave of compassion.

His mouth opened. "Uh..." he stuttered again, swallowed hard, throat muscles flexing, then blurted desperately, "D'you know me?"

The question threw her, but she sensed how urgently he needed an answer. "Sure." She nodded. "Y'all are booked into 27. Came in late last night."

"Anyone with me?" He was intent, face crumpling when she shook her head.

"No. I guess someone dropped y'off though 'cos ya ain't got no car that I can see."

The disappointment was written plainly on his face. He tried to get up out of the seat but slumped back again, his eyes losing focus. Worried he might be about to faint, she put a hand against the front of his shoulder to prevent him falling forwards. Dean blinked slowly at her, swatting clumsily at her hand.

"M'okay..." He tried to stand up again, pushed weakly against her hold, but then gasped a little hopeless puff of breath, shuddered, and slipped sideways. Suddenly she had all his weight, struggling to lower him gently until his upper torso lay across the bench-style seat.

"Bill!" she hollered, grateful when the sound of running footsteps came from the staircase. Bill burst into the room, red faced under wild white hair, grasping a shotgun; he pulled up short.

"Put that thing down," she snapped. "Git over here 'n' give me a hand."

Bill stashed the shotgun behind the counter and helped her swing Dean's legs up onto the seats so he was lying prone across them. Gently she slipped a small cushion under the tousled head, noting his face was now so white even the color from his lips had drained away.

"What's up with the young fella?" Bill's voice was concerned, the twang of Australian more pronounced than usual, as it always was in times of crisis, even after nearly 40 years stateside. She shrugged, was about to answer when she noticed first the remaining dried blood and then the cut and lump under the hairline. She felt the injury gingerly, pulling her hand back when Dean moaned, long dark eyelashes quivering against his cheeks as he flinched away.

"Looks like he's taken a bit of a knock. Mebbe we should call the doc, he owes me a favor or two."

Bill grunted his agreement, was already reaching for the phone, when Dean shot suddenly upright, eyes flying open. For just a second he looked directly at them, spoke one word clearly.

"Sam."

Just as suddenly his eyes rolled upwards; he threw his head backwards, began to shake violently, back arching as his knees gave way. He collapsed heavily onto the floor, a bitten off groan forcing itself out through the startlingly white teeth that were exposed as his lips pulled back in an involuntary snarl.

"He's fitting," Sheryl shouted, turning to see Bill already on the phone. She swung back to Dean, catching hold of him when the spasmodic jerking slowed and stopped.

"Gnhh..." he whimpered, eyelids sliding closed as he went limp in her arms. She held him gently, feeling an unexpected surge of protectiveness as he slumped against her.

"Ambulance is on the way." Bill's voice was close beside her. "Poor kid," he muttered, "He's right out of it."

Sheryl felt a tug of sorrow; there was just something about the hard-worn clothes, something in the way he hadn't asked for help, that made her sure he would've hated being so helpless. She wondered what had happened to him, how he'd ended up here in her motel. Surely there was someone looking for him, worrying about him?

-o-o-

Sam tossed his suit jacket into the back seat of the Impala, rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt, yanked at the tie to loosen it.

"Dammit, Dean!"

He'd combed every inch of the parking lot and diner, although there was no evidence to suggest Dean had even got as far as the interior of the diner. The only news from Bobby was that there was nothing on the wires, no hint of anyone taking down a hunter, a Winchester at that. Every lead had turned into a dead end; his brother had simply vanished from the face of the earth.

Sam's large hands fisted, knuckles white under the skin as he ground his fingers into the palms. His face was tight, brows drawn into a frown, mouth hard; if a person had seen him for the first time just then, they would never have imagined how those same intense eyes could light up, how that face could open wide with the charm of his easy, boyish grin.

"I'll find you, Dean," he muttered, "an' if anyone's hurt you…"

With a burst of explosive rage, he slammed the rear door of the Impala, heard a sound as though something had fallen inside the car. He ripped the door open again, hoping nothing had broken; angry at himself for damaging something so precious to his brother. To his surprise there was a small cloth-wrapped package in the back footwell. He unwrapped it slowly, heart hammering and froze. Dean's cell phone and his set of the Impala keys lay in his hand. There was a scrap of paper, Dean's scrawl easily identifiable. _"I'm sorry Sam. Look after Baby."_ Sam could feel a queasy, sinking sensation inside. For the first time it occurred to him that maybe his brother had just decided to leave. He shook his head, gripped at the package; he couldn't start thinking that way. There was just no way Dean would do something like that… was there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think :-)


	3. Chapter 3

The soft beeping of machinery filtered through into the grey haze. Dean blinked slowly, knowing instinctively that he was in a medical facility. The knowledge brought with it a feeling of dread, of needing to escape. He hunted through his thoughts but couldn't find any reason for his reaction. He blinked slowly, focussing gradually on a strip light that was humming on the cracked ceiling above him.

There were voices in the room; he tuned into them, sorting speech from the background noises.

"…really needs to go get checked out in hospital?" A woman's voice, concerned and vaguely familiar.

"I've run all the tests I can here, Sheryl. Our equipment ain't the best, but it's not bad for a local clinic." A man's voice, deeper, calm.

"I trust ya, Jim. Y'know that. I'm just worried about him is all, if you coulda seen him, I thought he was gonna up and die on me." There was a hint of a shake in the kindly voice and Dean frowned a little, wondering who she was talking about, thinking that they were kind of lucky to have someone worry about them like that.

"He's taken a nasty knock and no mistake. But he's a strong young fella, no reason why he shouldn't make a full recovery. Just needs to take it easy for a while, that's all. Hey now, looks like he's waking up…"

The voice approached. Dean blinked again as a face swam into view over him, the pinkish cheeks and fluffy grey moustache matching the voice perfectly. He felt the warm pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy there now. Take it nice and slow. You're okay… I'm Jim and you're in the Miner's Trail medical facility. Had a bit of a blow on the head so you've been out for a while, but you're back with us now."

The face, Jim, smiled at him encouragingly. Dean licked his dry lips and swallowed painfully. "Uhh…" he managed.

"There now. I'm just gonna raise the bed up a little, get you somethin' to drink."

The bed trembled and whirred beneath him and the room tilted slowly into view. His head pounded savagely; for a second he thought he might vomit but swallowed the feeling away until the hammer blows behind his eyes eased off. A plastic cup and straw were being held out.

"Just a sip or two now. See how that goes down."

He reached out shakily, took the straw and pulled at the cool water. It tasted cold, refreshing, better than any beer he could remember. He let it slide down his throat. It churned for a moment and then settled in his stomach.

"Thanks," he murmured as the straw was withdrawn. He could see a woman hovering at the end of the bed; she had long grey curly hair pinned haphazardly back, escaped tendrils sticking out every which way. From the motel, he realised. Obviously the 'Sheryl' the doctor was talking to as he came round. She stepped forwards, smiling a little anxiously. Dean had a fleeting memory of her concerned face as she supported him in the chair in the motel reception… and then nothing but darkness and pain.

"You got me here," he rasped, his eyes meeting her deep brown ones. "Thanks."

"No need for thanks." She flapped a hand dismissively. "It's good to see ya'll awake. You just stay there an' do what Jim here says and he'll have ya back on y'feet in no time at all."

Dean frowned, thinking suddenly of the woefully small clip of money and the ID card; no insurance card that he could recall. She seemed to read his mind.

"Don't you be frettin' about no insurance. Me an' the Doc here, we go back a long ways, an' he owes me, there'll be no bills for y'to pay. Just concentrate on getting better, y'hear?"

Dean's eyes widened with surprise; gratitude and relief fought with amazement that anyone would do that for him, a stranger.

Sheryl graced him with another smile. "I'm gonna get goin' Jim. Motel don't run itself. I'll be back later." A quick wave and she was gone.

"Well now…" Jim held out the cup again. "Sheryl has been tellin' me you were kinda confused earlier?"

-o-

There were no clues on Dean's cell phone. The call logs were deleted, no unexpected contacts or texts. Another dead end. Sam was tired, his thoughts swinging wildly from 'save Dean' to 'he's just had enough, walked off' to 'no way would Dean ever do that, not without a reason'.

He spread the map across the hood of the Impala. Three towns lay within reasonably easy reach. Blue River Forks... his finger hovered over the name, then moved on to Two Horse Pass: his gaze shifted further north to Miner's Trail. Small towns all of them, nothing much to distinguish one from the other apart from the relative remoteness of Miner's Trail.

"Agent! Hey there, Agent!" The call broke into his thoughts and Sam straightened up; he turned to see the waitress from the diner trotting across to him, a young boy in close pursuit.

"Jake here, he might've seen the man you're looking for…" She was a little out of breath, maybe more from excitement than jogging across the parking lot. She'd done her best to help him in the last couple of days, almost as though she'd sensed how important it was to him to find the man in the crumpled photograph. Sam turned eagerly to the boy, who looked embarrassed.

"It's prob'ly nothing," he mumbled to the floor, shifting his feet awkwardly.

"Hey." Sam smiled kindly, trying to keep the tension out of his tone. "Anything would be a real help. Did you see this man?" He held the photograph of Dean, folded carefully so Sam was out of sight.

"Yeah I think so. Uhh, no, I did see him, recognise the leather jacket, it's kinda cool. He was driving this car too." The boy pointed at the Impala, lifted his chin as though daring Sam to argue with him.

Sam felt swoop of excitement in his chest. "When did you see him?" The crucial question. He held his breath.

"Coupla nights ago. He parked it here, got into a blue pick-up, smart new lookin' one, I ain't sure of the type, one of them city type pick-ups, all pretty. It drove off…" He pointed at the road out of town. "Didn't see him again. Next morning, saw you, you come and got the car."

Sam swallowed. "Was he okay? Not hurt or anything?"

The boy looked confused. "Nah, he was fine, just got in and they drove off."

"Did you see who was in the pick-up with him?"

"Nah, sun was on the windshield… Can I go now?" Jake looked hopefully at the waitress.

"Sure, honey. If the agent's all done?"

Sam nodded, dug in his pocket and pulled out some dollars. "Thanks dude." Jake grinned hugely, took hold of the cash and set off across the parking lot in the direction of the small store.

It wasn't much, but it was something. No real answers but Dean had gone willingly, or at least on his own two feet.

-o-

Sheryl put the stack of laundered and folded clothes on the chair.

"It's nothin'" She waved his thanks off firmly. "There wasn't nothing else in the room. Least you've got somethin' to put on now when Jim lets you go. You could be out of here by tomorrow." She paused, "Amnesia then?"

Dean sighed, "Yeah." By the time Jim had put some questions to him in the late afternoon he'd already reached the conclusion by himself. He was called Dean, he'd been at the motel, he'd hurt his head. Pretty much everything else was a blank. It would come back, Jim had assured him, just give it some time, concentrate on getting better and taking care of that head wound.

He bit down on the panic, refusing to give into it, although the thought nagged at him. There was something important to do, something urgent. It was just so hard to think through the ripping pain in his skull; he let his gaze drift, afraid that he was being rude but too tired to have a conversation.

-o-

Sheryl left soon after, sensing his exhaustion, seeing the discomfort tight around his eyes. He was reaching for the pile of clothes as she turned in the doorway, no longer aware of her presence. He pulled the leather jacket off the top of the pile, tugged it across the bed cover and clasped it to him. He lowered his face to the leather, seemed to inhale. For a moment something chased across his expression, then he dropped his head back to the pillow. There was something about the set of his lips, the white pinch by his nostrils, that made her sure he was near to tears. She was even more sure he wouldn't want her to witness them so she slipped quietly away down the corridor.

-o-

Smells… they bring memories back like nothing else. The laundered clothes were a bright, clean fragrance. The smell of the leather jacket on top of the pile was different; it tugged at him, made him pull it towards him.

Dean dipped his face into the jacket, breathing in the smells deeply engrained into the old leather. Smoke, but not the nicotine smell of a smoker, more the leftover flavor of a thousand bars mixed with a sharper tang of something akin to wood smoke. A little tinge of beer and whisky in there too, overlaid with the unmistakeable aromas of gun oil, aftershave and an unexpected hint of copper. It brought a wave of nostalgia, a flicker of a memory of a dark beard that wasn't his own. Dean dug his fingers into the leather, pulling in the smells of his life, a life he couldn't remember. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, hugging the jacket to his chest, afraid to let it go, fighting against the surge of misery that rose up and threatened to overwhelm him.

He was concentrating on breathing slowly, keeping himself in check, when he first heard the noise. A little swish, as though the curtain around the second, unoccupied bed was being moved. Then bare feet on linoleum, approaching.

Dean turned his head slowly, fighting against the vertigo brought on by the movement and stared in the direction of the noises. There was nothing there, although the air in the room seemed suddenly colder. For some reason that set off alarm bells in his brain although he didn't know why. Tense, he held his position as long as he could, until the pain behind his eyes began to unscramble his vision. Moaning a little, he dropped his head back to the pillow, sure as his eyes slid closed that he caught a glimpse of something whisking out of the open doorway. He tried to open them again, but was too tired, sleep dragging him down into a dream of a faceless, tall man leaning against a shiny black car.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean, perched uncomfortably on the edge of his bed, tapped at his knee in frustration. Five more minutes and he should be out of there, just as soon as the Doc returned with his discharge papers. Two nights in the clinic were more than enough.

The clinic wasn't exactly busy, but even so the steady stream of people coming and going gave him an increasing urge to run and hide, to get somewhere quiet where he could pick apart what he remembered of the last few days. Being told you had amnesia… "probably, hopefully, only temporary"… was one thing. Getting his head around that was something else entirely. He was pretty sure he wasn't usually a 'run and hide' kind of guy, but this knowledge was being shoved aside by an unshakeable conviction that he really didn't like clinics, hospitals or doctors in general, especially when you kept getting a feeling that something was watching you, maybe even creeping around just out of sight. Besides it was damn cold in there; unexpected cold gusts of air seemed to move around the building randomly.

In the end, Sheryl and the Doc turned up at the same time, discharge papers in hand. Sheryl grinned at him in the easy, laid-back manner that he'd come to associate with her. She'd popped in to see him a few times, Bill in tow. Dean found he was absurdly grateful to see a familiar face in this world of strangers. He was glad to be going back to the motel for a few days.

"Take it easy now." The Doc eyed him seriously. "You can expect some headaches, a little dizziness. More than that and you're to come straight back, y'hear me?"

He agreed as sincerely as he could; there was no way he was coming back. No way he was going to let the Doc know just how bad the headaches really were, how the room tilted and spun every time he turned his head too fast. He wanted out of there. Now.

For some reason he was expecting to be pushed out in a wheelchair; he was relieved when it turned out the clinic didn't run to extra wheelchairs for guests who were well enough to get up and walk off right outside the doors. He paced carefully after the bright bubble of chatter that enveloped the Doc and Sheryl, concentrating on staying on course, on not making it obvious that the floor wasn't always quite where he expected it to be.

They were passing the janitor's room when he felt the sensation again; a feeling of eyes watching him, making the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. An icy breeze kissed his face and he turned carefully towards the source. The corridor tilted slightly but his eyes fixed on a figure standing in the open doorway. A patient, white nightdress, bare feet, long tangles of curly blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She stared at him out of a sorrowful, young face that was so pale he opened his mouth to call to the Doc.

"Dean. Dean!" Sheryl's voice was sharp; he realised she was looking at him with a worried expression.

"Is she… uhh…" The sentence trailed off, his gesture towards the doorway faltering as he realised the figure had disappeared. Sheryl took his arm. "You okay there?"

" _Oh crap!"_ He thought, forcing a smile to his face. _"They're never gonna let me out of here if they think I'm hallucinating!"_ He patted Sheryl's arm. "I'm fine." He let her guide him out of the building; it was obvious she already knew he needed the help.

-o-

" _Blue River Forks… nada. Two Horse Pass, jack shit!"_   That left only the relatively tiny town of Miner's Trail in a of 40 mile radius of the diner parking lot. Miner's Trail and the seemingly endless square miles of mountains and forest. Dean could be anywhere out there, or nowhere at all. Every minute Sam spent looking, his brother could be getting… taken… further away.

He flopped, exhausted, into the driver's seat. Since the lead about the blue pick-up there'd been nothing. He couldn't even remember when he last slept, just snatching an hour or so here and there, constantly jerked awake by a nagging urge to move, find Dean, before something bad happened, if it hadn't already. What was the point of having visions if you didn't get one when you needed it.

His eyelids were drooping, head nodding. " _Just a couple of hours…"_ he promised himself, stretching awkwardly across the bench seat, long legs folded.

He'd drifted a while, dozing, when a half-forgotten memory slid into his mind; it was so clear it was as though Dean sat beside him. His brother liked to sing, often lustily belting out some rock lyric or other as they roared down the highway. That day it had been different. Sam had been slouched up the door where he'd been sleeping. He'd woken a few minutes earlier and was watching Dean through his lashes, transfixed. The Impala was full of the soft glow of evening, the long slow harmonies of 'Tuesday's Gone' by Lynyrd Skynyrd pouring out of the speakers. And Dean was singing, the ache of sorrow and loss in his voice heart-breaking as he tapped the rhythm gently on the Impala's steering wheel with his fingers. The memory, the melancholy of the lyrics, made Sam shudder. He wrapped his long arms around his chest, squeezing tight as though he could stop something slipping away.

-o-

He was in a better room this time he realised, watching bemused as Sheryl bustled quickly around plumping up pillows and pulling blinds. Altogether more comfy and cleaner, nearer the reception too. Dean wondered if she was keeping an eye on him.

A few toiletries, coffee, snacks were on the table. "Just spares I had lyin' around." She dismissed them with an airy wave.

He swallowed thickly, wide eyed. "You didn't have to do that."

She paused, eyeing him kindly, seeming to understand his discomfort.

"It's nothin'. Really. Hey, I've got a boy, about your age. He's off travelling the world and I sure hope if he ends up in a fix, some mother somewhere is gonna help him out. Your own mother would be doing this if she knew where you were at."

He smiled, agreed he would be okay for the night and tried to hide the sudden surge of sorrow that made him sure his mother was not going to be buying him toiletries, or anything else, any time soon.

-o-

It was still early the next morning when Bill saw him amble aimlessly into the back lot. Kid still looked a bit unsteady he thought, as though he wasn't quite sure where his feet were going to land. He tracked him out of the corner of his eye as he worked, not making it obvious, but letting his tasks gradually lead him in Dean's direction.

"So, how y'feelin' this morning?"

Dean looked up at him, pulling himself away from his frowning study of an old tire. He shrugged. "I'm okay, I guess."

"Anything come back to ya?"

A miserable shrug this time. "No." He turned to face Bill carefully as he spoke, his hand feeling for and then finding the rough wood of the fence rail.

Definitely still dizzy then, thought Bill. Kid really didn't look right, he was still far too pale, waxy almost. He'd shaved that morning, the lack of stubble making him look even younger despite the shadows beneath his eyes and the little frown pinching at his forehead.

"You ate yet?" No, he hadn't eaten, seemed unsure if he'd even had coffee.

"Come on then," said Bill decisively, fishing out his keys. "Diner does a decent breakfast. My treat." He didn't wait for an answer, turning away before Dean could refuse, relieved but not too surprised when he followed. Kid was like a stray dog anyhow, not sure where to go or what to do; he looked like he needed a few kind words and a decent meal. He held the pick-up door open, moving slow, not wanting to rush the young man behind him.

Dean had stopped. He was looking wistfully at an old black Charger, half-hidden under a dust sheet at the side of the garage.

"She don't run so well now. Ain't got the time to fix her up." Bill watched him, noted the way his gaze slid appreciatively over the vehicle. "You think you might like cars?"

A slow grin spread, lighting up Dean's face. "Yeah." The first real enthusiasm Bill had seen from him.

"Any good with 'em?  Y'know, repairs and that?"

Dean looked unsure for a moment, his grin faltering and then spreading wide. "Yeah. Yeah I think I am."

"Welcome to have a go at her, if you fancy it. Tools are over there. You'd be doing me a favor."

The grin stayed, frown lifting as Dean climbed carefully into the pick-up, although Bill didn't miss the sudden grab at the dash, the hiss of breath.

"Just so long as you take it easy though, no pushing yourself. You've got a ways to go before you feel right again." An old man's stern and wise words he thought ruefully, wondering just when it was he'd got to be so old.


	5. Chapter 5

"Diner looks quiet." Bill smiled, getting carefully down from the pick-up, giving his old bones time to get moving again. "Let's get in there and get a cup of the good stuff."

Dean followed. If anyone had asked him to scale the pain in his head on a 1 to 10 scale, he'd have told them it was about 3 or 4. In truth it hadn't been below a 6 since he'd left the clinic and after the bouncing around in the pick-up it was climbing rapidly towards an 8. He wasn't sure what "a cup of the good stuff" was, but he was hoping it was coffee. Hot, strong and definitely no milk.

They settled into a booth on the shady side of the diner. Bill noticed how he'd been subtly manoeuvred until they were in a position where Dean could sit with his back to the wall and a clear run to the exits. He'd had a few ex-veterans as friends over the years and the choice of seat was familiar. It made him wonder if his breakfast partner was something to do with the military; he he felt a pang of regret that despite his youth Dean was already plenty old enough to have been to hell and back more than once. He thought the kid seemed a little tense, but from the lines of strain around his mouth it was more likely from discomfort than nerves.

"So, what can I get you guys?" Sheryl's youngest niece, Jody, was waiting-on that morning. She grinned warmly at Bill, jotting down his usual order before turning her attention to the stranger in the corner. Bill saw her eyes widen as Dean raised his head. He chuckled to himself, thinking it was a long time since he'd had that kind of reaction from a woman.

Dean's eyes were startled as he looked up at her. Confusion over the menu faded, replaced by surprise at being addressed, then appreciation of the pretty girl in front of him. Eyes lighting up, his face subtly altered as though something invisible was tugging the muscles and bones smoothly into a familiar place. His mouth lifted into a flirty grin, his full attention focussing on Jody, who was visibly flustered by the intense gaze.

She flushed, "Erm, there's the menu, or some specials on the board."

One thing for sure, Bill thought, whatever else he'd forgotten, the kid remembered how to charm the ladies.

But just as quickly the confidence was gone; Dean looked across at him for help, his smile fading. "Not sure what I like; I'm not too hungry," he said quietly, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

Bill smoothed it over quickly. "Special is always good, or if you ain't feeling so hungry, how about a piece of pie?"

The word 'pie' seemed to capture Dean's attention and he gazed almost longingly over at the display counter.

"They're all mighty fine, but the apple, that's my choice every time," Bill added in a serious tone; pie after all was not something a man should take lightly. "Hey Jody, make mine pie too okay?" It wasn't his normal choice for breakfast, but if it helped the youngster feel like he'd made a good choice then it was an easy enough cross to bear.

In the end it was worth it for the entertainment value. He didn't think he'd ever seen someone appreciate pie quite that much before. A look of bliss crept over Dean's face at the first mouthful and small, happy noises drifted across the table as he chewed appreciatively.

"Guess you like pie then?" Not the tidiest eater, Bill noted, hiding a grin.

"Oh yeah! Pie is awesome!" Eye-rolling awesome apparently.

-o-

By the time they were on their second refills of coffee, Dean's headache had backed down to a weak 6 and he'd decided pie was probably medicinal.

He'd made up his mind to do some work on the Charger. Perhaps if he stopped _trying_ to remember stuff he might actually _remember_ something. And if not, well it would repay Bill and Sheryl a bit. Maybe he'd be okay at the whole car fixing thing? The motel room wasn't paid up for ever. Sheryl had been vague on that subject; apparently some man had booked up front by phone and cash had arrived by mail a day or two later. Dean had his suspicions the booking had been for a lot less than the two weeks she'd insisted were covered.

He picked up the complimentary drawing pad for kids that was next to the menu, turned it over in his hands, took a crayon, started doodling.

'Dean' he wrote first in big strong print. It made him feel better somehow, seeing it there. 'Street', small letters now, fighting an urge to scribble over the word. It still didn't feel right. Then, 'Cars, fast ones', 'hot waitresses'. A quick grin slipped over his face, 'Pie is Awesome!' The grin faded. Slowly, carefully, almost afraid to form the letters, 'Sam?'

"Guess we betta make a move." Bill's voice interrupted him and Dean pushed carefully out of the booth. As he passed Jody, she noticed he had the little drawing pad in a white knuckled grip.

-o-

Sam unfolded himself, almost falling out of the Impala; it'd been a long time since sleeping in Baby agreed with his spine. He was still tired, his dreams haunted by echoes of his brother singing.

A quick splash in the diner washroom, some buttered toast and coffee and he was ready. He needed to spend some time talking to the local sheriff in Two Horse Pass, there were a few more stores to check, then he was heading out. He pulled on his jacket and tie, feeling depressed and frustrated.

-o-

All things considered, an hour or so later Dean was pretty happy. Back at the motel he'd swallowed enough painkillers to ram the headache down to a tolerable 5 and there was just something about the smell of engine oil and the feel of grease on his hands that made him feel good. No fast moves and the workshop stayed still, or at least still enough to be able to get spanners in the right place, even if it wasn't always on the first attempt.

Of course good things never last and the first sign that this happy interlude was coming to an end was the missing socket wrench. He was sure, really sure, it was on the work bench beside him, until it wasn't.

"Crap," he thought, fishing another one out. Two minutes later that had gone too. Now one missing wrench can be put down to being a bit knocked about in the brain area, but two?

It took him a few minutes before he spotted them in the middle of the garage floor, crossed one on top of the other like an x. It was about then he realised how cold it was, cold enough to make his fingers numb and his breath fog in the air.

He packed up quickly, skin crawling and mind racing, sure he needed to do something and do it NOW, but unable to remember what _it_ was. He was dragging the garage door across when he staggered and almost fell.

"Take it easy dude," he muttered, telling himself he'd done too much too soon and it was time to go and get some spare parts anyway… because only a crazy freak would think someone had just planted an ice-cold hand on their shoulder and given them a good push.

-o-

It was done then; there was nothing else in Two Horse Pass. Sam rubbed his eyes. He thought it wouldn't take long to get up to Miner's Trail, so he might as well stock up on a few things before he set out. If there was no sign of Dean in Miner's Trail then he could be heading anywhere.

He parked the Impala neatly in the main street, made a quick stop in the car repair outlet for oil and then headed for the store.

-o-

Driving the old pick-up down to Two Horse Pass made Dean more relaxed than he'd felt as far back as he could remember, which admittedly wasn't too far.

Old suspension jolting over the rough road hurt his head and he'd made a grab for Bill's sunglasses as soon as the sun filtered through the trees, but there was just something about the vibration of the wheel beneath his fingers that made him feel easy, almost at home.

He pulled up at the end of the main drag and walked back to the car parts outlet, stopping short when he saw a black classic muscle car parked outside.

"Oh, now that is just awesome," he thought. "67 Impala!"

The almost magnetic pull of the car drew him closer and he strolled around it admiringly, unable to resist a quick stroke of his fingertip along her lines. The warm metal seemed almost to thrum, transmitting a subtle charge to his skin. She was a little dusty, but the glossy paint was reflective enough that he could see his green eyes and tired face looking back at him. Dean's pulse rate picked up, the sound of the world around him suddenly muffled as something rippled the surface of his memories. He patted her side gently. "Beautiful," he whispered to her. "You are one hot looking baby."

It occurred to him that he was talking to a car, but he found he didn't care, looking wistfully through the windows before tearing himself away and heading in to pick up some parts for the Charger.

He was counting out dollars when he heard her start up outside, something in the deep rumble at once both thrilling and oddly painful. The ache behind his eyes flared unexpectedly, scraping sharp claws across the inside of his skull; for a moment he had to grab onto the counter, a wave of nausea and darkness sucking at his balance.

He waved off the clerk's worried query, pushed his way outside. The sleek car was gone, now just a rumble of sound receding into the distance. Dean headed slowly for the pick-up, feeling suddenly tired and oddly like he might cry.


	6. Chapter 6

"Come on!" Sam swore, slamming his hand on the wheel.

He'd often suspected and was now convinced that the Impala and Dean shared some invisible connection. She'd not been right since his brother had gone missing. He'd told himself it was just because he didn't have Dean's magical touch when it came to ageing engines and so he'd coaxed her, topped up the oil, driven respectfully and even handed out a few compliments. Now it seemed she'd had enough of him.

Just a few miles out of town the engine started to miss and stutter, finally cutting out all altogether. Cursing, Sam let the Impala drift into the side of the road, pulled up on the dirt edge and got the hood up. He felt a bit lost like he always did around engines; this really wasn't his thing. He ran his fingers through his hair in despair.

"This isn't going to get him back," he snapped at the Impala, realising, but not caring, that he was chastising a car.

Pulling and tweaking at a few random items had no effect and he miserably accepted that he was defeated by the meaningless mass of metal before him. "I miss him too you know, Baby," he muttered.

Fortunately, a couple of minutes later, a delivery truck pulled up alongside and the driver soon had his head under the hood. He declared the Impala officially broken and called for a tow truck.

Hidden as they were behind the truck, Sam heard, but didn't see, the battered pick-up pull around them as it headed towards Miner's Trail.

Less than an hour later, he was back in Two Horse Pass; the Impala was in the workshop and he felt like he'd never left. He was wondering what to do with himself when his cell phone rang. It was the local Sheriff.

"Glad I caught you there, Agent. I got some news for you. Might be we've had a bit of a break. It was a fancy _blue_ pick-up you were looking for now wasn't it?  Well, one's turned up. Local man found it this morning; looks like the driver went right off the edge. The vehicle went straight down into the brush; no surprise we haven't found it before now. Young fella in it. I've brought the body back to the morgue here. Thought you might want to take a look?"

Time seemed to freeze; Sam made a grab at the nearest building wall as his knees began to fold. He could barely hear the Sheriff through the rushing of blood in his ears.

"The body," he managed hoarsely, "Is it... I mean what does he look like?"

"Well, Caucasian… maybe mid to late twenties, quite a tall guy I'd say, dark hair..."

Sam's heart beat painfully. "Dark-haired?" he interrupted. "How dark?"

"Oh real dark, almost black." The Sheriff sounded puzzled.

Sam let out a gasp of breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Okay," he grunted. "I'll get down there right away."

He was still shaking when he pushed his way into the morgue behind the Sheriff. The body was laid out on a slab, covered with a sheet. Suddenly terrified, Sam carefully pulled back the edge, almost too scared to look. It wasn't Dean. He went weak with relief, leaning his thigh against the edge of the slab and hoping the Sheriff hadn't noticed. It was then he realised he recognised the cold, still face below him, had in fact spent the best part of two years looking across a classroom at it. It was Joel Whittle, his friend and study partner from Stanford.

-o-

Dean's headache had started to build since he'd heard the Impala drive away and by the time he got back to the motel it was heading up the scale to an eight. He dumped the car parts in his room, grabbed some take-out pie and coffee from the diner and flopped down on the bench outside his room to sip the coffee. He was tired, achy and the painkillers weren't even denting the pain in his head.

There was no point doing any more work on the Charger until the next batch of parts arrived the following day. It was quiet sitting there; his room was now the only occupied one in the motel, so he leant back in the shade, wondering why he felt so upset and trying to relax. After a while he dozed off.

-o-

As repairs on the Impala couldn't be completed until some genuine parts arrived, Sam was given the use of the workshop's aging courtesy car. It wasn't the best vehicle he'd ever driven but at least it enabled him to get out to the accident site.

The blue pick-up had left the road about ten miles out of Miner's Trail. It had clearly been heading back in the direction of Two Horse Pass when, for no apparent reason, it had driven off the road, rolled down a steep incline and come to rest in some brush. Invisible from the roadway, it was no surprise it had taken days to find.

Sam slithered carefully down to the taped-off area. The vehicle had come to rest on its wheels, both front doors now hanging wide open. It was in a bad state after rolling down the hillside and there was a fair amount of blood on the remains of the driver's seat, which had been partially cut away to remove the body.

Sam had a sudden overpowering image of Joel grinning at him across the library at Stanford, a small pile of paper pellets piled up in front of him, several matching ones already lodged in Sam's hair. Never one to follow the rules, Joel's larger than life attitude had in some small way filled part of the massive hole left by Dean's absence, had made it just a tiny bit easier not to pack up and run home.

Sam's breath caught, the blood affecting him more than the cold body in the morgue, accepting the harsh reality that he would never again exchange banter with that grinning face.

He moved carefully around the vehicle, wincing when he saw the bloody mark against the frame of the passenger door. It was just the right height for a head impact and a smeared red fingerprint on the top of the door panel whispered a story to him of a person touching their bleeding head and then pulling himself out of the vehicle. As Dean had been the passenger the last time anyone saw the vehicle, it was a reasonable guess that he'd been that person.

Sam tracked carefully, finding nothing immediately in the vicinity of the vehicle, where the emergency crew had trampled the grass flat. A little further out a few broken twigs in the screening brush led him to a slight indent in the ground. The kind of indent made when something or someone lay there for a while. There were a few bloodied blades of grass, a scuff mark made by the side of a boot… and nothing else.

Sam searched until the light was almost gone and then climbed back up to the road. He sat in the darkness for a time, swallowing bile and tears and an unbearable fear that Dean was dead.

Eventually he drove back to Two Horse Pass where he searched out the owner of the car parts store who, in his capacity of part-time fireman, had been one of the first responders at the accident site. It didn't seem any further information was forthcoming, until Sam dragged out the folded photograph of Dean, which prompted the man to recall he'd seen someone similar talking to his store assistant recently. He was only too happy to hand over the last week's surveillance recordings from the store, glad to see the back of the intense young FBI agent and get back to his pool and beer.

Back in his lodgings, Sam picked a date and began to work his way forwards through the recordings. He'd passed the time of the accident and was about to give up when he saw himself on screen emerging from the car parts outlet and heading off towards the store. Almost immediately a familiar figure appeared. He watched, eyes filling with tears, as Dean walked slowly around the Impala before heading into the car parts outlet. A few minutes later Sam saw himself return, load some groceries into the car and drive off. Dean left shortly afterwards, walking out of the camera's view along the main street.

Sam hunched forwards, feeling sick. Dean was alive that morning, days after the accident that killed Joel. An accident he hadn't reported, a dead body he'd abandoned. Dean had seen the Impala, must have known Sam was nearby. He'd just walked off. Sam ground his teeth. He'd find his brother, find out what was going on; if Dean just wanted out then he'd give him the Impala keys and leave.

-o-

Dean must have slept for some time, as it was starting to get dark when young voices woke him.

A kid, maybe 11 or 12 years of age, was dancing about by the trees, dramatically attempting to stop a younger boy from approaching the basketball net. The shared hair color and features strongly suggested they were brothers. The frustration on the younger boy's face and in his increasingly desperate body movements was clear to see even from Dean's distant view-point. The older kid was shouting out a sport's style commentary as he pranced around, adding a few crowd noises for effect, until eventually the younger one took a rushed shot, missed by a mile and succeeded in lodging the ball in a tree.

"Matt! You ass!" The older kid's clear voice carried across the parking lot and his brother visibly crumpled, still young enough to bring his fists up to his eyes as he began to cry.

Dean watched with interest as the older boy seemed to deflate, throwing an arm around his sibling's shoulders and talking earnestly to him before using his cuff to wipe away tears. Seconds later he was scaling the tree, hanging out precariously and knocking the ball down to earn a delighted grin from his little brother. They walked off together, jostling and pushing. Something in the scene felt so familiar to Dean that it caused his chest to ache. He pushed up off the bench and went inside, suddenly incredibly lonely.

As the door shut behind him any thoughts of loneliness were swept away by a freezing current of air; the temperature seemed to drop abruptly. He placed the pie carton on the table, puzzled and a little nervous as every nerve ending in his body told him he was in danger.

He barely had time to take a breath when something slammed into his side, hurling him across the room. He rolled instinctively and came up on his feet, looking around wildly. There was no-one else in the room. He spun around, checked the corners. Nothing.

"Dean!" A woman's voice was at his side; his head wrenched around and she was right there, so close he felt his eyes crossing as she hissed into his face.

"You were meant to save me! You promised!" It was the young woman from the hospital, still in her white nightdress, blonde curls a little crazed. She looked really pissed.

He opened his mouth to say something, although he had no idea what, but she'd already taken hold of his shoulders, sinking her long, icy cold fingers into his flesh. Dean gasped, helpless as she threw him into the wall. He took the impact on his shoulder and slid down, instinct making him grab for the bag of car parts as he fell. He swung it at her, thankful for the solid weight of the cast-iron water pump. The bag passed right through her, but she shrieked even so and disappeared, reappearing on his right. He swung again, staggering to his feet, again, clawed open the door and fell out into the twilight.

Something in his subconscious forced his body towards the workshop, where he dragged open the door, swung again at the pale figure reaching out for him and threw himself full-length across the floor to the large sack of rock salt he'd seen under the work bench. Without stopping to think about it, he launched a handful in her direction and hauled the sack outside. When she reappeared beside him he swung the pump at her and then laid a line of salt outside the door and windows of the workshop.

By the time he'd salted his way around the main building where Sheryl and Bill lived, he was exhausted, could barely stay on his feet. Legs shaking, he threw salt at the figure, felt a brief flicker of gratitude all the buildings were only one storey and staggered to his room. With a last burst of desperation he managed to slam his way inside and salt the door and window. The pump slipped out of his fingers, pain strobing from his head up and down his spine as he landed hard on his knees. He dragged in a breath, let go and flopped soundlessly across the remains of the sack of salt.

-o-

By next morning, after a night filled with vivid nightmares, Sam found himself in a strange state of apathy. He wanted to head up to Miner's Trail but forced himself to choke down some coffee and a few mouthfuls of breakfast before he dragged his way out to the loan car.

He pulled up on the way out of town to drop off the surveillance recordings. Everything seemed an effort and he even found himself struggling to lock the car door. He twisted the keys angrily, eventually freed them and stuffed them into his pocket, swung around... and just like that he was there, sauntering towards him with that unmistakeable loose gait that was all Dean.

Sam's heart stuttered, breath knocked out of him painfully by the emotional blow to his solar plexus. Mouth open, shock squeezing his words to a harsh croak, he raised an arm as though to signal, although it seemed impossible for Dean to miss him. He took a couple of stumbling steps forwards.

At first it seemed his brother hadn't seen him, but then the green eyes focussed, face shifting into an irritated scowl as Dean attempted to sidestep.

"Hey..." Sam managed, voice breaking as he grasped the familiar brown leather shoulders. He held on, tugging a little as he met resistance. "Oh man..."

Caught by surprise, Dean staggered into his chest before exploding backwards with a muffled curse.

"What the fuck are you doing! Get off, you freak!"

Sam found himself staring into the business end of a blue steel barrel, one that seconds before had been tucked securely into the waist band of his pants.

"Back off dude!" Being on the receiving end of a genuinely pissed Dean growl made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He froze, certain death inches away, as his brother slipped past him, backing away to a battered pick-up, the gun trained on him the whole time.

Years of analysing Dean's injuries by body language alone told him there was something wrong as his brother climbed into the driver's seat. Sure enough as soon as the cab door was slammed closed, Dean dropped the gun out of sight, grasping at his forehead as his face contorted with pain. He glanced over briefly before pulling away, a ghost of something flickering in his eyes as they met Sam's.

-o-

Sheryl knew there was something wrong when the pick-up rattled at speed into the yard, pulling up untidily by the garage. She was already on edge, wanting to question her guest about the piles of salt she'd found around the building, hoping it wasn't a sign of some mental trouble brought on by the head injury.

Dean half fell out of the door, staggered a few steps clear and bent double, hands on his knees as he was violently sick. She rushed towards him, pulling up short when she saw the gun held against one knee.

"Dean?" she asked cautiously.

He straightened up, gasping and spitting, grabbed at his forehead. "Uhh…" Two unsteady steps and he flopped down onto the porch steps, kneading at his forehead with one hand while the other kept the gun pressed shakily against his thigh.

Sheryl's heart was hammering, wondering what on earth had happened and "where the fuck has that gun come from?" A whimper of tires behind her announced the arrival of the old courtesy car from the workshop at Two Horse Pass. It pulled up in a swirl of dust and a tall, young man launched himself out into the yard.

-o-

Sam's gaze flicked past the woman, focussing on Dean, who was huddled on the porch steps, squinting angrily at him through narrowed eyes. He approached slowly, hands held out to the side.

"Hey," he said gently. "Dean. It's me man."

Dean rose slowly to his feet, the gun held down against his leg.

"Get inside, Sheryl." He was clearly addressing the distraught-looking woman, but didn't break eye contact with Sam, who realised with a shock that he just might be gunned down by his own brother. He stared in disbelief at Dean, hands dropping and his eyes welling up as the worry and exhaustion of the last few days suddenly slammed home.

"What! No! What are y'doing!" Sheryl's voice was shaking.

Dean sent a quick glance in her direction and stepped forwards, putting himself between her and the perceived danger.

"Who are you dude? Why are you following me!" His voice was gruff, but the gun stayed down, confusion leaking into his expression as he realised his adversary was crying.

"Dean..." Sam's breath hitched painfully. "It's ME! It's Sam!"

"Wait, hold up there! Sam? Did you say Sam?" Sheryl's voice again, stronger now. She pushed forwards, ignoring the warning of Dean's outstretched arm. "Do you know him?" She waved a hand towards Dean.

Sam nodded, shaking. "Yeah," he whispered. "He's my brother."

Sheryl's hand flew up to her mouth as she made a little sound of surprise. Dean just stared at him, his eyes going wide with shock. After a moment he shook his head slowly; he looked with desperation at Sheryl. "I dunno who he is!"

Sam heard himself sob and turned away, wrapping his arms around his middle and fighting an urge to vomit.


	7. Chapter 7

He'd tried, he really had. It hadn't been difficult to convince Sheryl that he was in the FBI, particularly when he dropped the name of the Sheriff in Two Horse Pass into the conversation. The creased photo of himself and Dean had worked its magic and had her well on the way to believing they really were brothers.

Whether or not he'd convinced Dean was another matter. The topic of their conversation had remained tight-lipped throughout, sprawling casually on the old wooden pew in Sheryl's kitchen and watching Sam with narrowed eyes. Memory loss or not, it was as though he knew Sam wasn't telling the whole truth.

Sheryl had done what she could to fill in the missing days, Sam throwing in the odd question. His brother contributed exactly nothing, so it was with a feeling of desperation that Sam asked, for what must have been the fourth time, "Don't you remember anything Dean, anything at all?"

That earned him a frown. "Are you always this difficult dude? I remember somethin', you'll be the first to know." Dean took something out of his pocket, popped it in his mouth and sent an unpleasant glare across the table.

Already tired, stressed, still on edge from having a gun in his face, frustrated and now snapped at, Sam felt he was about to implode. He put his mug down carefully, calmly, fighting his desire to hurl it across the kitchen. Clenching his teeth, he held his breath, trying to keep control. After a moment he pushed up from the table, not trusting himself to speak, gestured at the door a little desperately and walked outside. Not sure what to do for the best, Dean let him go, then realised Sheryl was watching him in a rather unfriendly fashion and trailed after him.

-o-

He found Sam standing over by the workshop, his back towards him. Dean approached slowly, not wanting to intrude but worried about the reaction his comment had caused.

"Hey… er it's Sam? Right? You okay there man?"

Lame question, he thought. Of course he wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. There was a little sound and Dean realised the broad shoulders were quivering. He sighed. "I am sorry, Sam, really. I want to remember, but there's just nothin' there man."

He scraped his boot in the dirt awkwardly, wondering if it would be better if he walked away. "You want me to go?" he blurted.

"No!" Sam swung around, eyes brimming, his hair sticking up crazily in a way that tugged uncomfortably at Dean's memory. He watched, wide-eyed, as his brother brought a hand up to scrub at his face and then flopped down onto his ass on a stack of old tires. His other hand came up, joining the first to cover his face as a broken sob forced its way out.

"Crap. Shit. Hey dude…" Dean was at a loss, unsure what to do but certain he should be doing something. He had a sudden flashback to the young brothers from the night before and stepped forward uncertainly, placing a hand awkwardly on Sam's shoulder.

"Buddy… hey, come on man." He patted the large shoulder comfortingly, startled and a little revolted when Sam dropped his hands and looked up, tears and snot on his face. Dean faltered for a moment, then sighed, pulled the cuff of his shirt sleeve over his hand and wiped his brother's face carefully, slightly surprised that he wasn't batted away and even more surprised by the warm feeling it caused in his own chest. Sam peered up at him blearily, eyes partially obscured by his floppy bangs. Dean frowned, irritated at the unruly mop, automatically brushed the hair clear of his brother's eyes and dumped himself down on a neighbouring stack of tires.

"So…" He raised an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "What we gonna do about this unholy pile of crap?"

-o-

The area by the workshop was peaceful. The pine trees that nibbled at the edge of it stretched back to the dry slopes of the mountains and it was a place of soft breezes and quiet bird song. Sam began to calm down; he drew his hands across his face, taking some comfort from the fact that his brother was at least physically present.

"Sorry," he muttered. "It's just been a tough few days y'know."

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked across, in time to see Dean popping something into his mouth again. He really hoped it was an M&M.

"So, what've you been up to? What were you doing in town?" Sam coughed, clearing the hoarseness from his voice, hoping to engage his brother in conversation, to find out just how much 'Dean' was actually in there.

He wasn't prepared for the enthusiasm that suddenly filled his brother's face and gestures as he found himself hearing all about an old Charger and car parts. A little grin crept over his face; it was an unexpected privilege, as though he was meeting the man his brother might have been, if the yellow eyed demon had never stopped by in Lawrence. He trailed after Dean to the workshop, pulling up short when he saw a broom and an untidy pile of salt near to the door. Even more worrying was the thick line along the window ledge.

"Spill some salt there?" he queried mildly, feeling his pulse rate pick up.

Dean's voice faltered, he looked away, suddenly awkward, a little flush of embarrassment spreading up his neck. He didn't seem to know what to say.

"Why the salt, dude?" Sam kept his voice calm, encouraging. "Has something been going on here, something odd? You can tell me, whatever it is. I might not be as surprised as you think."

Dean looked at him anxiously. "Are we close... brothers… do I like, tell you stuff?"

"Yeah, we talk, there's just the two of us y'know? What's up buddy?"

Dean worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, muttered awkwardly, "I think there's something not right, with my head. I've been seeing things... They can't be real... I dunno what's going on." His voice began to rise and he rubbed at his forehead, looking agitated.

Sam's pulse went up another gear. Was there something to hunt here? Was this why Dean had come to Miner's Trail? He felt a little sick at the thought of him facing some supernatural nasty with no hunting memories. He shrugged, fighting to keep it low key. "Salt can be kind of important, y'know? Want to tell me why you felt the need to put it along the door?"

His brother dropped his head, sighed. "You might want to just get back on the road. Leave me here. I'm… I'm kind of damaged goods y'know, since the accident." His voice sped up, the words running together. "Been seein' things, things that aren't there. Last night I thought something was throwing me around… must be some sort of _episodes_ y'know? I guess I need to back to the clinic. I dunno why I thought I needed salt…" He took a deep breath. "You better face it Sam, your brother is crazy."

"Whoa, slow down there. It isn't what you think. You're not going mad, Dean." He looked earnestly into the worried eyes. "Our family business, it's kind of alternative. Come on." He took Dean's arm, pulled him back towards the tires. "I think we need to talk."

-o-

So Sam found himself talking again, although at least this time Dean was paying full attention, firing questions, double-checking answers. He only really covered the basics but it would have to do for now.

"We really hunt those things? You think this is one, Sam?" Dean looked uncharacteristically worried and Sam's heart sank; what if his brother wasn't up to being a hunter now?

He smiled reassuringly. "You'll be okay, actually you're kinda good at it."

Dean jogged his arm, frowning. "How am I gonna keep you safe if I don't know what I'm doing?"

Sam chuckled, slapped him on the back; it seemed some things never changed after all. "You'll find a way dude," he said fondly. "You always do." He paused, looking critically at his brother. "Now how about we get something to eat? You're not looking so good there." Dean did look unnaturally pale and off-balance and he was rubbing his forehead far too often for Sam's liking.

"Get in the car man, I'll tell Sheryl everything's okay and suggest, in an official capacity, that her and Bill go stay somewhere else for a few days."

Something was definitely off he thought to himself, watching as Dean lowered himself slowly into the passenger seat and leant back, closing his eyes.

-o-

The smell of greasy food still made him feel a bit queasy, but that bacon cheeseburger was actually pretty damn awesome. Sam had huffed a little over the menu, muttered something about choosing a salad and then relented, ordering a cheeseburger without asking for his opinion. Dean was relieved, he couldn't believe Sam had got to be so big on a diet of the rabbit food he was currently chowing down on.

"You eat that stuff all the time, dude?"

"Yes, Dean. It's good for you, you should try it some time." Sam looked at him disapprovingly.

Dean smirked. "You don't want to be using that face too much there, makes you look kinda hormonal and bitchy."

He ignored the glare and dry swallowed another pain killer, realising he wasn't sure how many he'd taken that day. Whatever, they weren't working any more anyway.

-o-

By the time they arrived back at the motel there was a CLOSED sign hanging over the name and Bill and Sheryl were gone. Sam took the opportunity of re-salting, then introduced Dean to the EMF meter, making sure to point out that he'd actually constructed that one. It was no surprise there were strong signals in the motel room and around and inside the garage and workshop. Everywhere else seemed clear, leading Sam to believe whatever it was had been after his brother, rather than just lurking in the vicinity of the motel.

They walked out along the track to where Dean had first regained consciousness, found some faint signals and drag marks near to where he'd been lying, but nothing else.

They were heading back, level with the reception building, when the air went cold. The sun seemed to lose its warm buttery color and the breeze, moments before a warm breath of pine and sweet grass, suddenly cut at the skin like a thousand icy razor blades.

A figure flickered into sight. No young woman this time; it was a man, clothes Sam associated with the 1940's hanging loosely from his skeletal remains. He lunged immediately across the yard, slamming into Sam, who fell and rolled as he'd been taught, glimpsing Dean swinging at the figure with his iron knife. It winked out of sight, re-appearing behind his brother, who swung again, rolling lithely away and confirming beyond all doubt that, memory loss or not, his subconscious was still in perfect working order.

They fought their way across to the room, swinging and ducking and rolling in a perfected dance and they would've made it back behind the salt barrier reasonably intact if she hadn't suddenly appeared.

Sam saw the flicker of white in his peripheral vision and swung to face it, then froze, his knife dropping. He heard the grunt behind him as Dean took the full impact of a hit that Sam should have deflected, but he still couldn't move.

"Sam! Sam! What the fuck!" Dean had him by the arm, threw him into the room. Sam staggered, spun around, saw his brother was still outside, kicking the salt line back into place while fending off the skeletal man.

Dean pulled free, leapt for the doorway, thrown off balance as the man heaved him backwards. There was a dull thud as he bounced off the frame and he sprawled inside, drawing his knees up, teeth bared as he held his head in agony. Sam watched in horror, unable to go to his assistance, still frozen at the sight of the woman outside the door. She reached out towards him, a small, sad smile on her pale face. It was Jess.


	8. Chapter 8

At first there was just agony.

Later he realised he could hear someone moaning, gradually becoming aware that it was himself. A deep, wounded sound that wrenched out of his chest, tore past the rigid cords of his throat and forced itself between his clenched teeth, teeth ground together so tight he thought one of them might snap.

An insistent voice was jabbing at him.

"Dean! Dean, please stop... Come on buddy, breathe for me, please! Dean!" He recognised the voice as belonging to Sam. He sounded distraught.

Dean managed to unclench his jaw long enough to suck in three quick breaths, gasps really. It became a rhythm: groan, gasp, gasp, gasp, groan... and so on. He tried to focus on the sound of Sam's voice.

"That's it, just breathe buddy, try and ride it out, sshh, steady..."

Someone must have pried one of his hands away from his head because his fingers were now twisted into some coarse material. He hung on, using it as an anchor.

"Sshh…come on, please stop, come on man please, for me."

Sam again; something in him responded to the misery in the voice and he bit down on his groan, turning it into longer, slower breaths, gradually forcing his muscles to relax.

"Sam?" He tried, managing a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah, I'm here, shh it's gonna be okay."

"Ghosts..." he muttered, sure it was not okay.

"Don't worry about them, they can't get in." Sam's voice was dull. Dean got his eyelids open by sheer force of will, focussed slowly and realised he was lying on his back on the floor, with his head on Sam's thigh.

"Get me up," he grunted, grinding his teeth as hands slipped under his armpits and slowly pulled him up until he was leaning back against Sam's chest. The change in altitude nearly made him black out; he slumped back, vaguely aware that Sam's hand was holding his head, stopping it from lolling forwards.

"I've got ya. Hey, stay with me...Dean? Dean! Oh shit, shit! I need to get you to the hospital."

He brought a hand up, grabbed Sam's wrist, trying not to slur his words. "Not now. Buckets of crazy goin' on. I'm okay, just need to sit for a minute. You okay there, Sammy?" He wasn't sure why he lengthened the name, but his brother's relieved sigh told him it wasn't unwelcome.

"Wha' happened? Out there? What d'you see?" Something told him his little brother would never normally quit in the middle of a fight.

.

Sam felt winded, shredded somehow. The only thing keeping him grounded was the solid weight of his brother's back leaning against him. He shifted slightly, settling Dean into a more stable position, wondering how to condense the traumatic events of those Stanford years into a few sentences.

"It's a long story, so I'm gonna give you the short version. Back when I was in high school, I wanted to be a lawyer, get out of the hunting business, so after school I got a scholarship into Stanford University, the whole ride. Dad wasn't too pleased, we parted on bad terms so I was kind of out of touch for a bit. Met this girl, Jess…"

His voice faltered and he sucked in a breath. "Jess, she was the love of my life actually…" It was a struggle to force the words past the lump in his throat.

Dean's fingers tightened on his wrist, a gentle pressure giving encouragement.

"She got killed, same demon who killed Mom, same way. And after…I left, went hunting with you…"

Sam wiped his eyes roughly, breathed for a moment. "Anyway, after the funeral, some hunter friends made sure she'd passed on, so there's no way, _no way_ , she should be here now. Not unless someone, something, has pulled her back."

He wasn't sure if Dean was listening, if he was even still conscious; he was about to check when the hoarse whisper startled him.

"That's Jess? I'm sorry dude, that's…" He trailed off for a moment, then patted Sam's knee reassuringly. "It was me she was pissed at, not you, said I was meant to save her. We'll figure it out, okay? It's gonna be okay."

Sam felt an easing of the steel band around his chest, responding to the soothing voice that had smoothed over most of the troubles of his childhood. It was going to be okay; Dean said so, even if his big brother was currently as limp as a wet noodle.

.

They were interrupted by a loud, wasp-like, rhythmic sound. There was a sudden shift in the energy of the room; the ghosts appeared agitated and seconds later Jess blinked out of sight. Skeletal man flickered, crackled and then launched himself aggressively at something out of view.

"I'm okay." Sensing his brother's need to see what was going on, Dean leaned forwards a little; Sam shuffled backwards on his butt until he was clear and rushed to the door.

"There's some old guy!" Sam snatched up the iron knife, leapt over the salt line and skidded to a halt. "Way to go, dude," in an admiring tone drifted back to Dean, who was slowly climbing to his feet. He swayed, put a hand out to the wall to steady himself.

"What's goin' on, Sammy?"

"There's, er, this old guy… he just kicked ass man."

Dean shuffled to the door, squinting into the daylight, trying to make out the figure limping towards them.

"That was one nasty lookin' fella." Bill's voice. He grinned at Dean. "Knew somethin' dodgy was goin' on when all that salt was laying around."

Sam was looking at him, eyebrow raised. "You know this man?"

"Yeah. This is Bill." Dean flapped his hand in Sam's direction. "M'brother, Sam."

"Nice to meet ya." Bill nodded, wrapping a piece of cord around a decorated piece of wood in his hand. He noticed them staring at it, held it out for inspection. "Bullroarer, wards off evil spirits, this is kind of a special one. Been in the family a while." He tucked it into his shirt pocket. "Won't keep 'em away for ever. So… I'm guessing you're hunters then?"

And that's how Sam ended up talking again, getting them all on the same page so to speak.

.

"Seems pretty clear to me. Your brother come up here without you 'cos he knew it was Jess. Wanted to spare you the pain. Now don't be lookin' like that, I've got the wisdom of being an oldie on my side, makes things a lot easier. What we've gotta figure is how this bloke Joel got himself in the middle of it all, how them spirits are latching onto this place."

Sam nodded. "Me and Dean'll head down to Two Horse Pass, have another look through Joel's effects. Had a text to say the car is fixed, so we'll pick her up, guess we'll need some kit out of the trunk anyhow. You'll be okay here?"

"Sure thing. Take more'n a spirit to see old Bill off." The old man winked and settled himself on the bench outside the room, dragging a battered pipe and a dark plug of tobacco out of his pocket.

Dean looked a bit unsteady as they walked to courtesy car, Sam thought, but all signs of the groaning, rocking agony of an hour ago were well hidden. He'd be getting him checked out properly as soon as this was over, sooner if necessary.

"What car we picking up?" His brother was looking at him expectantly.

Sam's gut lurched; he'd forgotten just how much was gone. He forced a smile. "It'll be a surprise, dude."

Surprise turned out to be an understatement of epic proportions. Dean's face managed at least ten expressions in as many seconds before he finally burst out, "This is it? Oh that is a sweet ride!"

Sam smirked; his brother was actually stroking the Impala, goofy grin plastered all over his face. He dangled the keys in mid-air. "She's kinda yours, dude."

Dean's eyes went huge, his grin almost splitting his face. He sighed happily, "Oh, that is just awesome!"

.

Sam kept a careful watch on his brother as he took the wheel back up to Miner's Trail. Nothing short of unconsciousness would have stopped Dean from driving. Ironically that was Sam's greatest fear, especially on the winding mountainside road.

Joel's effects had proved to be typical of a young man on a road trip, although a key on a wooden fob suggested he had accommodation other than at the motel. There were one or two cabins up past the motel, the Sheriff recalled, maybe as Joel had been heading down from Miner's Trail he'd come from one of those? It seemed a long shot, until it turned out the cabins were on the same dirt trail where Dean had first recovered consciousness.

.

"You okay over there man?" Sam's voice interrupted his state of near bliss. Dean just grinned at him, settling back in the driver's seat.

The growling rumble of the Impala's engine echoed off the slopes, the vibration soothing against his back and thighs. He could feel the life in her through the pedal beneath his boot sole, thrumming into his fingers as they held the wheel. It didn't matter if there were ghosts, if his head hurt as though someone was twisting an icepick in his brain, even if he had a hole in his memory the size of the Grand Canyon. Sitting there, with the warmth and solidity of Baby all around him and his brother riding shotgun, Dean Winchester was at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story, you might want to view 'What did I do?' Link via CrowHorse1 above. :)


	9. Chapter 9

A smile kept creeping across Dean's face as they headed back to Miner's Trail. He was feeling like crap and the light was hurting his eyes, but there was just something about the Impala that made it more bearable.

"Any shades over there, dude?"

He was almost sorry he'd asked when he saw the guilty look on Sam's face, as he realised his brother couldn't remember if he owned sunglasses, let alone where they were. A pair materialised rapidly and Dean put them on with a feeling of relief. They looked pretty cool he decided, smirking at himself in the mirror, lifting an enquiring eyebrow at Sam's snort.

"What?" He checked the mirror again. "What!"

"Nothin..." Dimples began to appear in Sam's cheeks.

"What? I'm adorable!"

"Nothing's wrong dude, really."

Women love me! Umm... I think."

"Yeah. Yeah they do." Sam's chuckle lit up his face and Dean grinned, sure the joke was on him but finding he didn't really care.

-o-

They drove for a while longer, climbing up the side of the mountain towards the narrow and winding part of the road that would take them past the accident site.

"Pull over here a minute." Sam took the EMF meter out of his pocket. "Gonna check the crash site. I figure there might be some residual traces. Wasn't thinking straight first time I was out here."

They parked up under the cliff overhang so they didn't block the road and crossed over to where a length of police tape stretched across a hole in the barrier.

Dean cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable as he looked at the jagged metal and torn earth disappearing over the drop. "Must have been burnin' rubber," he muttered, peering uneasily over the edge.

Sam glanced at him. "Stay here, dude. Won't be long." He stepped over the barrier a few yards away from the break and slid down the slope without waiting for a response.

Dean shuffled closer to the edge, keeping one hand on the remains of the barrier. He could just see the blue vehicle's roof, Sam's head bobbing about nearby. He shuddered, feeling suddenly queasy and lightheaded and he gripped hard onto the metal until the sensation passed. "You okay down there Sammy," he called, the nickname comfortable in his mouth.

"I'm fine. And it's Sam," echoed up to him. "There's readings, stronger'n I was expecting after all this time."

"Okay," Dean whispered, forcing himself to unclench his grip on the barrier and back slowly away across the road. Uneasy and dizzy, he leant against the Impala as something picked at his memory, peeling open an image of headlights cutting through darkness, the barrier and the dark trees beyond rushing towards them as a dark-haired man beside him screamed, tearing desperately at skeletal fingers around his throat.

"Dean! Dean! Crap!" Sam's face was looking down at him, eyes wide with alarm. Dean realised he was on his butt, sprawled untidily against the Impala. He pushed himself upwards shakily, grasping at his forehead as the pain thudded in time with his racing heart.

-o-

Sam insisted on taking the wheel and spent the rest of the journey casting anxious sideways glances in his direction. By the time they arrived back at the motel, Dean was more than happy to escape from under his watchful eye.

Bill had already set up a double salt perimeter around the room and stocked up with essentials. "Might not be finishing off that fella tonight," he said calmly. "Always good to have a safe refuge."

The light was fading fast by then and so Sam hauled in a couple of extra mattresses while he brought Bill up to date. The old man heard him out; Dean could see him frowning and nodding as they talked quietly together just out of his earshot. Whatever was said didn't make Sam look any happier.

After a bit Bill wandered over; he thrust a bottle of water at Dean. "Not looking so good there, get yourself some shut-eye. Too late to do anythin' now and it's been a hell of a day. No point headin' out in the dark."

Almost too tired to put one foot in front of the other, Dean didn't need much persuading. He took the water gratefully, washing down a large dose of strong painkillers while no-one was watching. He sat on the edge of the couch next to Sam's lounging figure, half listening to the conversation as he waited for the meds to take effect. Leaning forwards, elbows on knees, he drifted, the words running together as the room slid into soft focus. The pain retreated, not gone, but held down as though by a thick layer of skin or plastic.

-o-

Sam chewed through his burrito steadily; he hadn't realised how hungry he'd been until Bill pulled them out of a paper sack.

"I'll keep yours for later?" Bill was watching Dean with narrowed eyes.

Sam didn't think his brother had even heard; he looked tired and vulnerable, staring with glassy eyes at the floor. As he watched, Dean's head nodded, jerked upright and then dropped again as he started to list sideways. Frowning, Sam automatically dropped a casual arm around his shoulders, grasped a handful of brown leather and tugged gently. Dean toppled into him, leaning heavily on his shoulder; Sam realised he was asleep. It was both worrying and oddly comforting at the same time.

Bill smiled at him sadly. "Had a brother once," he said in a soft voice. "Long time ago. Grew up together, real close, then somethin' happened and we parted company. Didn't speak for years. Always thought we'd meet up again someday, then I gets this call and he's dead."

"I'm sorry," Sam said awkwardly, feeling the inadequacy of the words, realising it could so easily have been the story of himself and Dean if the yellow-eyed demon hadn't gone to Stanford.

"Long time ago, don't worry your head about it." Bill inclined his head in Dean's direction. "You look after yours. Get him lying down shall we?"

Afraid that Dean would fall off the couch in the night and damage his head even more, Sam ended up putting one of the mattresses on the floor in front of it. Gently he manoeuvred his brother onto the mattress and pulled off his boots. Uncharacteristically Dean did not stir, even when Sam took off the jacket and threw a blanket across him. His pulse felt steady enough, if a little slow, and Sam suspected the muddled contents of the first-aid box may have lent a hand in his brother's lack of response. Dean was difficult to read when it came to injuries; the only thing Sam could be reasonably confident about was the fact he was probably a lot worse off than he was letting on.

-o-

The ghosts turned up not long after dark. Skeletal man was clearly agitated, drifting up and down the salt lines and hissing in their direction. Crackles of yellow-tinged energy flicked through his spectral form, making the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand up.

Jess, thankfully, remained in the background, a gently glowing figure hovering in the distance. Sam could just about make out her sad expression.

"I'm so sorry, Jess," he called, voice breaking. "We'll make it okay. I promise."

He wasn't sure if she'd understood or not. He stared forlornly at her, chest tight with unshed tears. He would probably have stayed there all night if Bill hadn't pulled him inside and shut the door.

"No use, young 'un," he muttered kindly, as Sam tore his gaze away from the pale remains of the girl he had fully intended to marry and live with for the rest of his life.

"Get some sleep," he added firmly, his tone giving no room for argument. "I'll do first watch, give you a shake later. Your brother's out for the count."

Sam nodded miserably, settling on the couch where he could check on Dean's sprawling sleep by simply cracking open an eye. He was exhausted, but even so would have been surprised at how quickly he fell asleep given that Jess's ghost was roaming nearby.

-o-

Bill gave him a call around 3 am. The ghosts were gone, nothing outside but black shadow and the light glimmer of a waning moon. Sam suspected Bill may have waited for Jess to leave before waking him.

He settled in a chair by the window, keeping Dean in his line of sight. His brother was still asleep, muttering and shifting restlessly from time to time.

The breeze of earlier had given way to a stronger wind that flicked bits of grit and salt at the outside of the door and Sam was glad Bill had put lines both inside and outside the room. He kept an eye on the salt line outside, hoping it held. He wasn't sure if he could cope with Jess re-appearing and peering right through the window at him.

After a while the volume of Dean's muttering increased, so he went over, checked his temperature and pulse. He was half-prepared for his brother to strike out, but again he didn't respond. The name of 'Joel' could be distinguished now in the disjointed ramblings, making Sam wish he had the ability to tap into Dean's dreams; he was sure the answer to everything was there, hidden in some sub-conscious layer.

He settled back down in the chair by the window, alternately viewing his brother's dark huddle and the shine of the dull moonlight on the Impala's paint. He tried to calm himself. Morning wasn't far off and who knew what the day would throw at them.


	10. Chapter 10

"You're cold. Put this on." The words arrived at the same time as a balled-up hoodie that Sam pushed into his chest as he passed. Dean grabbed at it reflexively, startled out of the vague fuzz in which he'd spent the early morning.

He'd been hunched in his leather jacket, looking rather wistfully at the duffle bags, wondering which one of them belonged to him and whether he actually owned anything more substantial than a t-shirt.

He shrugged off his jacket and shook out the hoodie; it was warm and soft in his hands, smelt faintly of aftershave and soap. He realised it was rather large.

"Sam, this yours?"

Sam carried on loading shotgun shells into his pockets. "Just put it on dude. You wear it lots. You kinda like it."

A little unsure, Dean slipped it on, zipped it up, pulling his jacket back over the top. It did feel good he decided, feeling a little warmer already. He rubbed absently at the numbness in his face and fished around in his pocket, feeling a sense of relief as his fingers closed around a few stray painkillers.

Sam didn't even look up, his tone flat. "Lay off the meds, Dean."

.

Bill could hear the raised voices coming from outside. He slung his bag over one shoulder and headed out. The Winchesters were glowering at each other next to the Impala.

"Give me the goddamn keys, Sam!"

"No. Not 'til you've been checked out properly." Sam wasn't budging, scowling right back, giving as good as he got.

They wouldn't be going anywhere at this rate, Bill thought. He still didn't like the way the kid looked. If anything he was considerably worse than a couple of days earlier; not so much a stray dog now as a sick one. Quiet, keeping it to himself, but all the signs were there if you took the time to look. As for his younger brother, he was clearly on the verge of either explosion or implosion, somehow holding it down in front of his sibling by sheer force of will.

They weren't kids, he reminded himself; they were grown men, despite the fact he could feel every one of his extra 40 years as he watched them snarling at each other. In the end he cut the argument short by jangling the truck keys in their faces.

"Truck," he said flatly. "I'll be doin' the driving."

Both young fools opened their mouths to argue, but you didn't get to his age without a few tricks up your sleeve.

"You won't be wantin' to take the Chevy up there, not 'less you want to rip the bottom outta her."

Clearly they didn't; he turned his face away so they couldn't see him smirk as they trailed after him to the truck.

.

The truck rattled past the place where Dean's memories began and started the long, slow crawl up the side of the valley towards the high ground. The mountain peaks were already lost behind heavy cloud and as they climbed steadily higher the dull light of the morning became a murky grey.

"What d'you think is holdin 'em here?" Bill spoke the thought aloud. Sam shrugged, he'd been wondering the same thing.

"It's something to do with Stanford. Joel still lived there I think. Looks like they've had some trouble and he's tried to get in contact with me." He glanced at Dean. "Guess Dean here intercepted the call and decided to take the job without involving me, 'cos of Jess." Swallowing painfully, he went on. "They're fixing on Dean somehow, dunno why. But they're not on him all the time, so I figure there's something around here that's holding them. If Joel had access to one of the cabins like we think, maybe it'll be in the cabin?"

Bill nodded. "Our best shot right now."

The first drops of rain had just started to fall when Bill braked the truck to a halt. A large pine tree lay across the track, blocking it from the steep mountainside on the left side of them to the drop-off on the right.

"Looks like we're hiking in from here." He scrambled around by the roots for a while, came back scratching his head. "Ain't no mudslide. Looks like something ripped it out by the roots and wedged it there."

They loaded up and scrambled over. It didn't look as though the tree had been there very long; the earth was still damp on the torn roots, resin leaking from gashes along the trunk and sticking to their hands and jeans. Sam peered upwards, but couldn't see any corresponding gash in the mountainside from where a large tree may have been torn.

The track was steep, rough underfoot as they plodded their way upwards through an increasingly heavy rainfall.

.

Dean dragged his hand over his face, trying to wipe the water away from his eyes and nose. The rain was now torrential, beating down on them, making it difficult to see or even to breathe. He was flagging, trailing after the others, when he started to feel they were being watched. A quick check around revealed nothing but empty mountainside, but he couldn't shake the icy fingers tapping against his spine. He adjusted the shotgun, wondering dully if the salt-laden cartridges would still deliver a stinging shower of salt, or merely a splat of salty water.

They walked on, Bill leading, setting a slow pace suitable to someone of his advanced years, or perhaps for someone who was feeling ill enough to drop. Whatever the reason, Dean was grateful, finding it increasingly hard to keep up even at a snail's pace. Eventually he missed his footing, went down hard on one knee, but managed to be upright again by the time Sam turned with a querying glance. He grinned, no humour in it, hoping his brother had missed the muddy patch on his knee.

A few minutes later he was down again, on both knees this time with one hand in the inches-deep water rushing down the track, just managing to keep the shotgun up off the floor in his other hand. Sam was back at his side before he could even think of getting up, took him under one arm, pulled him upright.

"You're not up to this, Dean. We're turning back."

He was about to argue when Bill's voice called from further up the track. "Cabin here!"

He let Sam haul him up the slope, not even caring any more, just grateful to have something to lean on when they stopped. A dark cabin, boarded up tight for the winter, stood on their left, tucked into the side of the mountain.

The words were out of Dean's mouth before he even realised he'd spoken. "Not this one." He wasn't sure who was most surprised.

Bill looked at him, considering. "There is another one, up a ways. You up to it?"

Dean pulled away from Sam's hold, spoke over his protests. "Yeah. I'm good." He set off, leading the way this time.

.

Sam followed him, miserable, sure he should somehow physically stop his brother from taking another step. How he was even walking was a mystery in itself, but he was, doggedly splashing one boot after another up the trail.

They forged on, Dean in the lead now. He reached a turn where the track bent out of sight behind a large boulder and stopped, looking back to them. "It's round here."

The cabin lay in front of them at the trail end; the door was wide open and half the contents were strewn across the steps and down the mountainside. They approached cautiously, weapons at the ready, the rain momentarily forgotten.

Sam had reached the bottom of the porch steps when Jess appeared in the doorway. Without warning she slid past him, grabbed Dean's shoulder with a pale hand.

"Why did you take so long?" Her voice was plaintive. "You promised."

Dean stared at her in shock; Sam could see the rivulets of water on his white face, all lit up by Jess's glow. She leant closer, hissing slightly, the light bouncing off his brother's eyes, their true green suddenly vivid.

"Jess. No! Leave him alone. Please." He reached out to her, pleading; she let go, tears in her eyes as she slipped by in the direction of the cabin. He went to follow her, but turned back when he heard a sound behind him.

Dean was struggling with skeletal man, who had long fleshless fingers clasped around his neck.

"Get off me, you bony freak!"

Bill sent the bullroarer spinning in the air and skeletal man shuddered, letting go of Dean's throat, flickering with blue energy. Bill was chanting something and the spirit quivered, lunged at Dean, knocking him onto his ass, then flickered out of sight.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean massaged his throat.

Sam was pulling him up when the cabin behind them lit up, glowing green through the gaping doorway and windows. Whatever it was they were after, it was in there somewhere.


	11. Chapter 11

The cabin interior pulsed with a sickly green light. Sam had never seen anything like it before and he gripped his shotgun tightly, checking the weapons on his belt. He walked cautiously up to the doorway, looking back when he heard a scuffling noise behind him. Bill had taken hold of Dean's arm; he seemed to be steadying him on the steps as though he'd nearly fallen.

"Dean," he said in protest, wanting nothing more than to make his brother wait outside.

"No." The tone was flat, Dean's face impassive as he shouldered his way past and through the door. Sighing, resigned, Sam followed.

Stepping inside was an eerie sensation; the green glow had substance, resisting their movements and pressing on their skin in an uncomfortable way as the door slammed shut behind them. The room itself was a scene of devastation; the remaining contents were smashed and scattered.

"This is a whole new level of weird. Freakin' kryptonite, dude." Dean's voice was oddly muffled, the words elongated as his mouth seemed to stretch like taffy before Sam's eyes.

Even as he spoke, items on the floor began to quake and shift. Skeletal man popped into view as a large table lamp flew into the air and then smashed down again, shattering into pieces as it impacted with the floor. Jess materialised too, staring in their direction, seemingly unaffected by the growing maelstrom of objects that rose and swirled around them, although Sam noted that both she and skeletal man appeared more corporeal than before.

The low hum, present in the cabin since they stepped inside, began to increase in volume and skeletal man hissed, strobes of energy flickering up and down his form as he approached. In less time than it takes to blink, he suddenly flew across the room towards Dean, who sidestepped neatly and blasted him with rock salt. The spirit flicked out of sight, reappearing immediately in the path of Dean's slashing iron knife. Sam tried to run to his brother, but his legs felt as though he was wading through sticky mud. He forced his way forwards, feeling a sudden easing of the resistance as Bill began to swing the bullroarer on a shortened length of string.

The bullroarer created a little circle of calm, spirits and flying objects alike kept at bay. Jess hovered at the edge of the circle; she was saying something, her expression earnest, but Sam couldn't make out the words.

"Jess!" he shouted over the hum. "What we looking for?" She spoke again, inaudible, frustration clear on her features.

Behind them Dean was rooting urgently through the debris, moving forwards within Bill's protective circle. Every so often he seemed to pause, rubbing at his face as though something was bothering him.

"Dean?" Sam called anxiously to him, but his brother ignored him, his gaze suddenly fixing on an upturned set of drawers. He stepped forwards eagerly, momentarily outside Bill's circle. Skeletal man wasted no time, immediately body-slamming into Dean, who was propelled through the air. He impacted with the wall and crumpled to the floor, but to Sam's relief, he struggled right back up. There was blood on his forehead and gushing from his nose, but at least he was upright.

"S'okay, Sammy," he slurred, staggering towards the drawers.

Sam was distracted by Jess's voice as it broke through the humming. "The board," she kept repeating insistently. "It's the spirit board." Spirit board, he thought, oh my god…

"Dean!" He spun around, but his brother was facing him, already holding an Ouija board triumphantly in the air. He was grinning, the grin strangely lopsided and distorted, then wiped away altogether as skeletal man pulsed red and fastened his fingers around Dean's throat, shaking him like a rag doll.

The Ouija board skittered across the floor; Bill doused it immediately in lighter fluid and set it alight, but to Sam's horror it made no difference at all to skeletal man, who still had Dean by the neck. Sam slashed at the spirit viciously and he disappeared, leaving Dean grabbing at the wall for balance as he fought for breath.

"Sam…" His brother's voice was hoarse, forcing itself through his damaged throat. "Get the planchette, the pointer…" He waved Sam away.

Bill was already rooting frantically around and Sam leapt to join him, his boot slipping on something small on the floor. He snatched it up. "Bill!" he roared, throwing himself in the direction of Bill and the lighter fluid. Skeletal man reappeared, howling wildly, but seconds later the planchette was burning fiercely and to their relief the spirit shrieked and disappeared in a flurry of sparks. The green glow faded and the room went silent.

Sam looked up, gasping for breath and saw with surprise that Jess was still there. She was smiling at him and his heart clenched painfully; she was as beautiful as ever and as unattainable as a dream.

He could hear Dean's gasping breaths behind him and turned to check on his brother, who was straightening up slowly, rubbing at his throat with a pained expression. Sam winced in sympathy; there was just something about his brother's neck that seemed to attract the unwanted attention of any passing fugly. He'd lost count of the times he'd seen monstrous fingers wrapped around that lean throat.

"Are you okay, dude?" he asked, worried, rushing over and grasping him by the upper arms. Dean weakly batted him away.

"What the hell, Sammy," he grumbled. "No chick flick moments." The words dropped into the silent room like a stone. Dean raised his head, eyes widening as recognition lit them from within. "Sammy? Sam! Dude!"

He stepped forwards, pulling Sam into a hug. Sam hugged him back desperately, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob bursting out of his mouth as his brother slapped him on the back a couple of times and pulled away, grinning.

Sam beamed at him, but the smile slowly faded, wiped away by the feeling of something cold slithering in his gut. Dean's grin was all wrong. It was still distorted, awkward-looking and as he watched his brother reached up to it, dragging his fingers down his face clumsily, a little frown creasing his forehead.

"What's wrong, Dean?" he asked sharply.

Dean looked puzzled, his hand dropping to grasp at his own arm, fingers kneading at the leather. "Uh, Sam…" he muttered, eyes turning glassy as he took an involuntary half-step backwards and sat down abruptly on the floor. Sam dropped to his knees in time to catch him as he sagged sideways. He was out cold.

He was checking for his brother's pulse when he heard Jess crying. He swung his head in her direction, taking in her tear-stained face a split second before he realised with horror that Dean was standing behind her, although the weight of his body still lay limply in Sam's arms.


	12. Chapter 12

_Dean looked puzzled, his hand dropping to grasp at his own arm, fingers kneading at the leather. "Uh, Sam…" he muttered, eyes turning glassy as he took an involuntary half-step backwards and sat down abruptly on the floor. Sam dropped to his knees in time to catch him as he sagged sideways. He was out cold._

_He was checking for his brother's pulse when he heard Jess crying. He swung his head in her direction, taking in her tear-stained face a split second before he realised with horror that Dean was standing behind her, although the weight of his body still lay limply in Sam's arms_ …

Every pore of his being was screaming, his mouth twisting open but nothing coming out as his heart was wrenched out of rhythm; it stuttered, missing a beat and then began to hammer. He fisted the front of his brother's hoodie through the open front of the leather jacket, gave him a little shake. "Dean? Dean!" His own hoodie he realised, that he'd given to Dean only that morning.

Dean's head lolled backwards, arms dropping limply at his sides. Out of the corner of his eye he could see ghost Dean stumbling forwards, his face shocked, Jess's restraining hand on his arm.

"No, no, nononononono…" Sam could hear his own voice, but it was remote, out of his control; he ignored it, letting it trail off as he ran out of breath. He laid Dean down carefully on his back, automatically checking for a pulse under the still-warm skin of his brother's neck. There was none.

"Okay, okay, okay…" he whispered, falling back on training, unzipping the hoodie and starting CPR. He could hear Bill in the background, shouting instructions into the radio, but closed his ears to the distraction, concentrating all his focus on the still figure in front of him.

He counted, shouting the count in his own head. Compressions first, Dean's chest dipping under his hands, t-shirt over bone and flesh. Then breath, life force passing from his lungs to Dean's, seeing the chest rise as his breath inflated lungs of the same genetic make-up as his own, incongruously aware of the texture of his brother's lips beneath his mouth. Were they already cooling? What joke would Dean make if he could see him now? No, he _could_ see him now, he realised with a sob; Dean's boots and legs, oddly transparent, visible out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't fuckin' cry," he told himself. "Keep the rhythm going."

The temperature in the room dipped as Bill swung open the door, still talking into the radio. "Yeah, clouds. Yeah, don't worry, it'll be gone afore ya get here." His voice receded as he stepped outside.

"Sam. Sam, stop." Jess was speaking, laying a hand on his arm although he couldn't feel it.

"No."

"Sam!" Her tone was urgent. "There's something I can try, sweetheart. I need you to stop."

He looked at her, bewildered. Her face was tear-streaked but determined as she smiled a small, encouraging smile. Sam glanced up at ghost Dean, his brother was nodding, so he rocked back on his heels, aware that tears were dripping off his chin but not bothering to do anything to stop them.

Jess spoke, voice low and Dean nodded again, stepping over to straddle his own body, then lowering himself carefully until he was sitting on the floor, his ghost legs merging back into the flesh and bone beneath them. He looked at Sam, gave a little flick of a tight grin and then lay back, disappearing as the two identical forms merged.

Sam stared, sure he'd seen his brother's chest move of its own accord. Yes, definitely a movement, Dean's mouth opening a little as he dragged in a breath, a pulse flickering into life beneath the skin of his neck. Flickering, then fading again as the forms separated, Dean floating up a little, creating a weird hologram effect as he hovered about an inch off the ground, ghost just emerging from flesh and bone.

"Crap." Dean's voice sounded hollow, ghostly lips moving although the flesh ones did not.

"He's too new." Jess again; she seemed to glow suddenly bright, her fingers on Sam's wrist were now a grip of ice pressing against his skin. "Turn him on his side." He stared at her. "Now! Sam!"

Bewildered, he rolled Dean's body onto its side, the ghostly form turning with it. From the expression on his brother's face and the way his transparent fingers were gripping onto the flesh ones, he was struggling to remain within the corporeal form at all. Jess slid to the floor behind him, as though she was going to spoon, then she shifted forwards, her smaller figure disappearing inside his brother's body.

Dean's expression was briefly startled, then Jess's arms appeared, wrapping themselves across his chest and pulling inwards until both ghost Dean and all traces of herself disappeared.

Dean coughed suddenly, wheezed in a breath, then another, his hands scrabbling at the floor. Sam caught him, held him, weeping, wondering how long Jess could hold on.

"Bill!" he yelled, voice choked. "Bill!"

"It's okay young 'un. Helicopter on its way." Bill was beside him in seconds, draping a blanket around Dean's unconscious form. "Let's get him outside, won't be much of a gap in the weather."

The weather, he'd forgotten the weather. Sam felt the twist of hope in his chest wither and die as they laid Dean on the wooden boards outside the door. The rain had stopped, but everything was shrouded in a cloak of thick white cloud; it surrounded them on all sides, impenetrable for a helicopter trying to land on a mountainside.

Bill leapt down the steps, moving like a man less than half his age. He flicked a lighter, setting fire to a small pile of dry kindling in front of the cabin, then pulled a pouch from his pocket, tipping the contents into the flames; he began to chant as he stepped back. The bullroarer was in his hand again, swinging in a long arc, noise rising and falling.

Sam sat, lifting Dean from the cold floor to lie against his chest. He wrapped his arms tight around him, tucking the blanket closer, whispering reassuringly. His brother was limp in his arms, but he was breathing, little puffs of white vapour escaping to join the cloud.

Bill's voice seem stronger and Sam looked up, rubbed his eyes, staring. There was someone standing beside the old man; he was dark-skinned, a white beard, clad in only a loin cloth, colorful paint in bold stripes and dots adorning his body. He was chanting with Bill, their voices mingling. The pungent smoke from the fire seemed to swirl with the arc of the bullroarer, spreading wider and wider, driving the white cloud away, further and further until a circle of blue sky appeared.

The heavy whump of rotor blades travelled up the valley towards them. Without missing an arc, Bill threw a handful of something into the flames. There was a brief flash of green, smoke roiled, climbed. Bill and the man chanted on, the man now shuffling on the spot in some ancient rhythm, his hands beating against his own thighs. And just like that, the cloud was gone from around the cabin, rolling back across the valley as a helicopter chased the sunlight spearing through the remains of the mist.

Within minutes everything changed. Noise and bustle surrounded Sam as he stammered information, his brother was ripped from his arms and strapped ready for transport, tubes and wires and drips appearing around him. For just a moment, everyone's attention was on Dean as they loaded him ready for transport. The sun was so bright that no-one saw the pale figure slip away from the stretcher. She stood beside Sam, barely there, invisible to everyone but himself and Bill.

"You're going with him." Bill's voice was firm. Sam hesitated, not wanting to leave an old man alone on the mountain without even any transport.

"You'll be alone," he said.

Bill grinned at him, gestured behind him up the mountainside. "I'm never alone," he said gently and as Sam watched a myriad ghostly figures flickered briefly into view and then disappeared. The white haired man lingered longer; he stared at Sam, eyes of the deepest brown set in a crazed map of wrinkles in his dark skin. The ancient wisdom in those eyes humbled Sam. "Thank you," he whispered. The man smiled suddenly, beard parting to reveal worn white teeth as he faded away.

Jess was last, suddenly glowing brighter again. "It was Joel and some friends," she said simply. "They used the Ouija board to try and contact me. I don't know why, guess they were drunk, must have seemed like a good idea at the time. The bad spirit was already tied to the board. Joel tried to get you, brought the board up here, away from everyone. Cabin belongs to his family. Dean took the call, came instead; I guess he thought maybe you couldn't handle seeing me." She looked so sad that Sam's heart lurched.

"Jess," he said hoarsely. "I'm glad I saw you. I love you. I miss you, so much."

She stroked his face gently. "Love you too," she whispered, smiling at him, all dimples and still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "Always… Now go and be with your brother, he's going to need you."

She reached up, pressed lips as icy and soft as a snowflake against his mouth and was gone before he could even thank her.

"Just go." Bill patted his shoulder, smiling. "Kid is alive, keep him that way, y'hear? He's got some car repairs to finish for me when he's fixed up."

Sam gripped his arm, wordless, swallowing, nodding, then he turned and ran to the helicopter, the door slamming behind him.

He felt the swoop in his gut as they lifted off. He sat limply beside Dean, staying out of the way and letting the medical terminology wash over his head. After a while he reached out, careful not to pull against the tubes and wires; he wrapped his fingers tightly around his brother's and let himself cry.

~o0o~

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's it for 'Lost'. Thank you for reading and thank you so much for your kudos and comments :)  
> The story continues in the sequel 'Found'.
> 
> Although Sam hasn't been told at this stage precisely what is wrong, Dean's symptoms from the very start are those of a concussion gone wrong, possibly an intercranial haematoma. The final blow when skeletal man throws him into the wall would easily be enough to kill him. Good job Jess was there! Jess -having had her behave as the usual disturbed spirit early on, I was very keen to redeem her later when help actually arrived, because after all she is the love of Sam's life. 
> 
> Oh and finally, if you were wondering, the aboriginal spirit helping Bill would be a familiar spirit, most likely a spirit guide.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Lost' is complete.
> 
> I never intended the story to continue, but after some requests from readers on another site (some pleasant, at least one not so pleasant), I did end up writing a sequel. If you're interested, it's posted under 'Found'.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
